


this is how i lose you

by nothingislittle



Series: Unspoken [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, John and Mary's Wedding, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Self-Hatred, Sherlock-centric, The Sign of Three, The Sign of Three Spoilers, no one hates sherlock more than sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:22:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What a pleasant and insipid delusion best man has been. Wouldn't second best man have been more accurate, more real, and so Sherlock commits the rest of the day to use the correct term in his mind, second best, second choice, out of two even — last, barely chosen at all and, really, it’s all well deserved, isn't it? What a fool, to imagine for a even minute he had any real value."</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is how i lose you

The flashes burst and crack and the sun is beating brightly down and everything, everything is so sickly sweet is makes him ill. He imagines like he can taste it on the air, feel it in the heat against his skin, sticky like cotton candy floss, in the wind blowing past his ears, carrying laughter like a mocking.

The entire universe is laughing at him with this bright, sunny day. It should be black as night with rain plastering these fluttering fabrics to the ground, flattening everything, ruining things.

But no.

The sun shines on and Sherlock poses and smiles until his cheeks burn from overuse.

“Er, Just the bride and groom, please.”

He hears it from a long way off, as if underwater, or perhaps on a telly turned low in the next room. Either way, it’s nothing to do with him, certainly. If he’s sure of anything today, it’s his place next to John, he doesn’t even have to doubt it. He’s been given the official position, “Best Man.” He’s allowed, he’s commissioned, he’s required to be a John’s side and it suits him fine — he belongs there anyway. It’s nice to have it been made official, so no one can question that he should be there or make callous jokes about it all or attempt to move him away.

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice cuts through, from just below his right ear and, of course, how could he have been so stupid? There is one person who could unseat him from this place and it’s the man who put them there.

“Oh, sorry.”

 _Best man. How quaint._ Sherlock thinks as he steps away hastily, obeying John’s unspecified request. He watches John and Mary smile at the photographer, move together, hold each other, and the warm sun on his back feels like burning, like fire and ice because what was it John had said?

“The two people that I love and care about most in the world.”

Two.

And yet here John stands, with only one, and of course, _of course_ if there could only be one it wouldn’t be him. What a pleasant and insipid delusion _best man_ has been. Wouldn’t _second best man_ have been more accurate, more real, and so Sherlock commits the rest of the day to use the correct term in his mind, second best, second choice, out of two even — last, barely chosen at all and, really, it’s all well deserved, isn’t it? What a fool, to imagine for a even minute he had any real value. He almost laughs out loud because he’s ridiculous.

 _Ridiculous_.

The photographer calls him back into the shot, to stand next to John again, and where before it felt _right_ , now it feels wooden and false, unnecessary, like a prosthetic limb on a body that isn’t missing any. That’s what Sherlock is to John’s life. A superfluous, pointless addition, jutting out awkwardly and everyone can see this.

The pain of it ropes around Sherlock’s heart and tightens and the mask slips from his face, just briefly. Looking down to try and hide it, he momentarily glimpses John face and, incredibly, he finds him experiencing a similar moment, pain laced in his features. Sherlock is perplexed to see John looking like this on his _wedding day_ and can’t understand why but he knows he wants to stop it, to bring the smile back. John deserves to smile.

He stays his hand from grabbing John’s because they’re surrounded, literally surrounded on all sides, by guests and the wedding party, though, astonishingly, it seems as if in this tiny expanse of time, no one is looking their way.

Sherlock wants to speak, to ask something, to pledge something, to say _something_ , anything and he thinks he will, but just as he steels himself, he hears the click, feels the flash of light on his skin. Once it’s faded, Sherlock looks to his right and John has turned back to Mary. Smiling, laughing, his hand on her back. They both walk away, together, toward the reception hall.

There is so much they don’t say and — apparently — they never will.

Some of it slips out during his speech, it can’t be helped, but by the end of the evening, after the meal and the near-murder, the deduction and the dancing, Sherlock’s heart is gored and bleeding and what’s the point? He’s lost every good thing he ever had and deserved each minute of watching it go. So, quietly, he leaves.

And no one calls Sherlock’s name, no one entreats him to stay.

No one.

 _Well deserved_ , he tells himself.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> teapotsubtext.tumblr.com - follow for more horrific pain


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